Magic and Murder
by Gwen6
Summary: Revamped. WIP: After Destiny and Duty, Nalia faces dissension inside Amn. Imoen is cast with her lover, Apheyr, into the pits of Hell. NB: Possible slow updates due to school pressures.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Candlekeep had stood for centuries, unbroken by any force. Storing within its walls a vast treasure of knowledge that no other places could match, it was a place of wonder and adoration for the people of Faerun. So valuable, was its knowledge, that those who wished to enter had to provide a tome of high cost to the monks. Even then, the visitor soon had to leave. The storehouse of magical spells were opened to almost no-one, except the monks and the few who were trusted implicitly.

It had taken nearly a year, but Imoen now counted amongst the few in all of the world, who the monks of Candlekeep allowed to enter the inner sanctum of spellbooks, from places and cultures as diverse as Evermeet, Halruua, Calimshan or even time-lost Netheril. To wander in the dimly lit book-lined corridors and vaults of the library, in the hidden areas beneath the monastery, made Imoen feel alive again. When she first began adventuring, she had approached her first spell with a sense of awe, and now, faced by an immense gathering of knowledge, she felt awakened, stimulated... excited.

"Archmage Imoen, this one finds this place constrictive... but... Apheyr does not want to leave."

Imoen smiled fondly at her lover, the delicately-featured air genasi, with his shocking white hair and gentle, soft, blue skin. As he spoke, white mist stirred the air around his mouth, and Imoen found herself blushing, imagining the feel of his icy lips on hers, the oh-so tender touch of his cool blue fingers, the empathic, extremely confident, almost arrogant, gaze that seemed to pierce every layer of her soul like the ice daggers he so ably wielded. Touching his cheek fondly, Imoen said, "Don't worry, honeybun. We'll spend a while studying down here, then we can take the copies we make onto the walls, to look at the sky, yeah?"

Apheyr frowned, and said, "Honeybun. This one does not approve of the name. Apheyr feels it is demeaning." His eyes however, did twinkle slightly as he said that.

Her rather wicked laugh cut through the quietude, and she patted him on shoulder. "You're so cute."

Together, with her hand in his, they walked through the maze of bookshelves. Imoen stopped, when she saw a strange gleam coming from the corner of her eye. Turning, she whispered, "Apheyr... look at this," before pulling out a book encased in gold, with sapphires encrusted upon it. Her hand caressed the cover, and she touched the title, written in archaic runes. Brow furrowed in concentration, she spoke as she translated, "Ah... the... the... the Lorebook of the Firemage..." She smiled, before opening the book, to gaze at a yellowed page, marked with the tiniest notations she had ever seen in a spellbook. Each notation seemed to denote a spell, or a different way to fling magic.

"Such a spellbook, this one has not seen... though Apheyr is wary of anything that calls itself a Firemage. He likes ice."

Imoen shrugged, "Don't be silly. Fire has its uses too. Besides, where'd all your passion be if everything about you was ice, hmm? Although you're cold, Apheyr... some of you can be warm, even hot." She grinned, and then winked, taking the spellbook in her arms, and walking over towards the marble table she had moved magically down here last week. It was large enough for she and Apheyr to work on separate spellbooks, copying incantations from ancient scrolls to their own spellbooks.

_In order to gain entrance to this storehouse,_ the solemn Ulraunt had declared, _you must prove to us here, that you will not spread this knowledge too easily. Imagine if the lowest mage had the power to command dragons, or shatter cities. Such power, you two will have, power to match many in this world. Use it well, and sparingly, and share it to few, else a plague of power will spread from our walls, and doom the world to a short life of fire and magic._

Imoen heard Apheyr still moving, strolling along the lines of bookshelves. She began to read the spellbook avidly, following the words that first described a simple magic missile spell, though in a form she had never imagined, then a spellshield. Although part of her screamed to flip to the last page, too look upon the wonders that were there, she did not. The Red Wizards of Thay were wizards who craved any power. She was a mage who loved the craft for the joy of it. If she found a way to cast even the tiniest cantrip in a better way, she would count that over any spell that could summon hellfire itself.

Nonetheless, a mage of Imoen's skill swiftly read through the first part of the tome, and as she did so, her mind wandered. Where was it from? Netheril? No, the magic was too familiar to her to be from Netheril. In those hallowed days it was said, magic had worked differently. Myth Drannor? No, it was too old for that... she found that her mind was almost more concerned about the origin of this book than she was about its content.

Her mind-wandering stopped instantly however, when she finally turned to the more difficult, unusual spells. Now hunched over the spellbook with avid curiosity, Imoen began to scribble madly with her quill, barely noticing when Apheyr sat down opposite her, holding a tattered spellbook bound in moulded fur.

They sat together, studying, for a long time. Even Apheyr did not complain when the hours ticked by. An air genasi he might be, and bound solely to the skies and freedom, but he was a mage as well, and the secrets within both books were enough to drive the claustrophobia from his mind as surely as spring rains ended the winter thaw.

Tethtoril entered, almost seven hours later. The candles they had lit to give them sight had mostly died down by now, and so they were made suddenly aware of the acute darkness, when they saw the old monk bearing a lantern. He gave a kindly smile to Imoen, one of his two old pupils, and bowed, "Archmages... I am sorry to interrupt."

Apheyr flowed to his feet, and spoke, "Fear not. This one and Archmage Imoen are unconcerned. You have shown immense kindness to them both through your acceptance of our places here when Loremaster Ulraunt would not consider it."

Imoen did not even look up from the golden spellbook, but grinned, and said off-handedly, "Sit down and join us, you great prune of a monk. And Apheyr, stop being so formal. The monks here are fun-loving followers of Lliira, okay? They swing from bannisters and do all crazy stuff like that. All the time. Don't you, Teffy-tee"

The solemn monk blinked at the nickname, and cleared his throat at her words. "I most assuredly did not, and do not, swing from the bannisters. But I will," he added with a smile of his own, like that of a father looking fondly at his child, "have a seat." He did so, and placed the lantern on the table, clasping his hands in his lap. "You are well, dearest Imoen?"

Ending her study of the book, closing it with reverance, she nodded. "I am. And you, Teffy? Where've you been? I hear Ulraunt was screaming like a fishwife for days about your dissappearance. Luckily me and Apheyr have kept ourselves to our rooms and down here, so we missed most of it. You've been demoted yet?"

Tethtoril shook his head. "Not demoted. And yes, Ulraunt was rather vexed. Yes, I am well enough, considering."

He answered the several questions in his usually slow, measured tones, which never seemed to raise much in volume, though Imoen remembered that he too, could hold his own in a shouting match, sometimes even better than the master of Candlekeep himself. She met his gaze, her brow quirked in silent question, and finally he gave a minute nod, before continuing, "And as for where I went, Imoen... I have visited Athkatla, and your dear sister. A remarkable woman, Nalia. A pity she is forced to rule, instead of studying here. She would have made a fine addition to the monastery."

Imoen grinned, although something about his tone troubled her. It felt as if he was trying to avoid discussing something terrible. Nevertheless, she said jovially, "Nalia's good, but too... political... to remain in a library."

Apheyr murmured then, absently, from his own study, in his exotic voice, "Apheyr used to say Imoen was too crazy to work in a library."

Tethtoril stroked his beard then, and continued, "She is in difficult waters. Since the Sythillissian Empire was defeated two years ago, certain lords and merchants have grown most... vociferous... in their opposition of her rule as Open Councillor. Of course, in the old days of Amn, they would have been eliminated swiftly and without fuss, but Nalia refuses to act like that. The commons love her for it, but... I fear that she will have much to contend with as the days go by."

With a frown, Imoen said, "There is more. I can see by your face."

The old monk met Imoen's gaze, and his expression was sad. "Imoen... I am sorry. Keldorn Firecam and his family have been murdered in their sleep."

Imoen gasped, "Oh, gods..."

She could hardly belief it. There had been a hint of something bad from Tethtoril's tone, but she had not suspected this! Sorrow rose within her, painful in its intensity, she felt Apheyr kiss her softly. Somehow he had moved from his seat to stand beside her, within a few seconds of hearing Tethtoril's words. "Imoen... remember that whatever happens, Apheyr is here for you. Lord Paladin Keldorn was a great man and a good one, and a better friend. He will be blessed and loved by Lord Duty." One of his cool hands found her shoulder, and squeezed comfortingly, as his accented voice whispered, "Go on, Tethtoril."

"Yes... well..." the monk cleared his throat. "Nalia is grief-stricken, but she has named Elizabeth Delryn, Anomen's aunt, as Lady of Murann. She has sent the fierce woman south with an honour guard of a thousand warriors. That Cowled Wizard... Algerias... he accompanies her, as well."

Imoen nodded, and closed her eyes to gather herself for a moment. She had to remain calm, at least until she was in private. She could weep then, but first, she had to ascertain the scope of the problem, had to see if it was neccessary that she act to help her sister. "So... a strong bodyguard and a powerful wizard, as well as a noblewoman fanatically loyal to Nalia but with social connections and riches enough to gain the support of many of the moderates in Murann. A simple enough move. Will it work, Tethtoril?"

The monk winced, "I am but a monk, and well-versed in lore, but not in the subtleties of politics..."

Even though she was pained, Imoen could give a half-laugh at that. "Please, Tethtoril. You've seen more political intrigue even behind these walls than I have seen in my lifetime. You could give even Nalia a run for her money."

Tethtoril shrugged, "Perhaps.A truly remarkable woman, is de'Arnise. Yes, I think it might work. It does depend on how far the merchants are willing to go. Whoever it is who killed Lord Firecam and his family has power enough that Nalia should be wary. But none have declared openly against Nalia... so for now, Amn moves along in its uneasy peace. Nalia is still powerful with the masses, and the moderates amongst the merchants and lords. Most of the temples support her, as do the knights and paladins. The cowled ones... are an unknown in this entire matter."

Imoen massaged her forehead, "Nalia has it under control, then. Gods... Keldorn... he was old, but he had so much spirit... I did not expect... not... not yet..."

As she spoke, she found it becoming more difficult to speak. Her throat tightened painfully, like someone was pinching her windpipe. She squeezed her tearducts, and quivered once, as she tried to fight the sadness. And then, even though Tethtoril was still there, Imoen began to cry. Apheyr held her close to him, and whispered to her, stroking her brilliantly bright pink hair with slow, measured, calming movements. With a dignified nod, and concern flaring within his eyes, Tethtoril stood, and left the two alone, leaving the bright lantern behind. Amongst the dust and books of ancient times, Imoen clung desperately to Apheyr, remembering an old paladin who had been a friend.

* * *

The autumn wind was cold, and the ground was already frosted outside, when Imoen awoke in the morning. The windows to her bedchamber were opened, and although outside her covers it was freezing, Imoen remained snug and warm. She sighed, and glanced beside her, at Apheyr, who as always lay with just a thin silk robe over his form. The cold did not touch him as easily as it did her. Her air genasi lover was asleep, so Imoen did not stand up out of bed. She just lay there, watching him. The contours of his chin, the lilting rise of his lips, the sumptuous eyelashes and the expanse of white hair that extended from his head. Breathing in, she smiled. He was perfect. Beautiful, and caring. Intelligent, and courteous.

Had it not been for him, she would have been alone yesterday, would have had to deal with the news of Keldorn's death without a shoulder to cry on. When Kathryn had ascended to godhood, Imoen had kept her grief to herself. Anomen was devastated, Viconia was not one to share her grief, nor indeed was Nalia. There had been no-one to turn to. Now, she was grateful for Apheyr. His calm presence, the loving touch of his cool body... he had prevented her from turning into something she would have grown to hate, and arrogant, cold-hearted wizard. No, he had kept alive the fire that everyone said made her special, the pseudo-witticisms, the cheeky comments, the flirtatiousness and general unorthodoxy.

Unable to resist, with a smile on her face, Imoen inched closer to Apheyr, and placed her arm around his waist. She felt him stir, moving even in his dreams to enfold her in a warm embrace. She giggled and his eyes flickered open wearily. "Imoen... Apheyr finds... finds you a most welcome sight first thing in the morning." With a sound deep in his throat almost like a purr, he nuzzled her neck, and then asked, in a more collected tone, "Are you well, Archmage Imoen?"

She sighed, and said, "I am not happy... but... it is as you said. Keldorn will be content in the halls of Torm"  
Apheyr nodded. "Thank you, Imoen."

"What for?"

He touched her nose, "For not letting this beat you. Apheyr has seen those who lose companions, and it destroys them completely"

Imoen closed her eyes. "I know. And thank you for... for everything."

With a smile tinged both with sadness and with love, Imoen leaned in, and kissed Apheyr gently. He soon responded, his cold hands touching her. Moving her own hands through his hair, she soon found she was warm enough to ignore the gusting autumn wind that was swiftly chilling their room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Far south of Candlekeep, the city of Murann still bore the scars from war two years earlier. The white-washed grey-stone walls were smudged with the ash from the fires that had once devourted the city. More than half of the towers of the city had yet to be repaired, standing in noble-looking, but still crippling, dissarray. As Algerias, mounted beside Elizabeth Delryn, the formidable aunt of Anomen Delryn, approached the city, he felt a great disgust. This place had once been the jewel of the south. Now, it was a scorched, charred shell. Outside the new gatehouse, which was, to the credit of Lord Firecam's two-year rule, fully-functional and looking nigh-impregnable, a vast shanty town of tents and canopies had erupted. The wizard looked at the teeming masses of people, shouting insults and calls to purchase goods, and was surprised at himself that he had to fight back an urge to blast them into ash with a fireball.

_Nalia would never stand for it_, he told himself sternly. _It would shatter her rule beyond any chance of repair._

Algerias had volunteered, when the High Cowl had wanted someone to betray Nalia. Yet upon standing alongside the Lady de'Arnise, he discovered that there was something about her that he liked. He disliked her soft-heartedness, and the way she allowed love to rule her heart. But she was, in her skill for intrigue and her magical power, an incredible woman. Although Algerias was, in his own words, the worst of bad pennies, he had grown to respect Nalia, warily. That respect had blossomed into admiration, and that admiration had grown into adoration.

And it helped that Nalia had brought to Amn some of its greatest prosperity in many years, although many merchants would not acknowledge it. Her taxes had cut deep into their pockets, and had gone towards building centres of academic schooling for all childre, towards getting the poor of the streets. Algerias had argued against that first, vehemently, but even he could now see the benefits. In fifteen years, the nation would benefit from more intelligent citizens, who understood clearly questions which many grown men failed to understand. It reduced squallor, allowed the poor to work more efficiently, furthering trade. Coin, which had always poured into Amn, was rushing like a river of gold - and a lot of it was rushing to Nalia's government, rather than the merchants.

"This is a bedraggled city... but it has spirit."

Lady Delryn's voice was haughty, but it warmed when it praised the place. Algerias glanced at her. For a woman aged fifty, she was an attractive woman. Raven-black hair was tinted with grey. Her lips looked pinched, and wrinkles clasped to the corner of her eyes. Yet there was a sense of steel in her eyes. This was the woman who had fought Anomen's father, who had used her contacts to gain the boy acceptance as a squire. This was the woman who had taken the Delryn holdings into her deft hands, moving her House into firm position as one of the more powerful families in Amn. She was completely loyal to Nalia, as well, and had already driven plotters out of her lands, in coffins.

He snorted, "It looks like Lord Kossuth, God of Flame, has shat all over it."

The venerable woman pursed her lips. "Have some decorum, wizard." She swept an imperious gaze over the shanty town, and then nodded. "I see why you speak as you do. Your gaze does not go deep enough. Having come from Athkatla's splendour, you see a semi-ruined city, struggling to recover. Scratch the surface though... _see_ deeper, and this city is a place that is teeming with resilience. Gold pours in from the north, you know this. Lord Firecam administered it fairly and well. The walls were collapsed in many places, when Nalia became Open Councillor. Now look at them. Although they are blackened, they could still hold off a large army. And I hear the docks are impressive, as well."

Algerias remained silent. There was no point arguing with the woman. She was intelligent, and opinionated, and as stubborn as tempered steel, and when she believed something to be true, she would never admit she was wrong. And she might even be correct in this, but stubbornness was a trait that Algerias also possessed, and he would not admit he had been wrong in his first impressions until he desperately had to.

The wizard turned his attention to their honour guard, or, for want of a better term, 'army'.

Nalia was no fool, and so she had ensured that Lady Delryn arrived in the south with forces enough to discourage any open rebellion. In the van, impressive in their gleaming silver armour, rode twenty paladins, with blue plumes sparkling from their helms. Three standard bearers carrying the separate banners of Amn, House Delryn and the Order of the Radiant Heart rode with them, their chins lifted in pride. Behind the paladins, one hundred knights rode with ease and grace. From the banner, no doubt, it would look like a small river of molten, living silver marching towards the city. As well as the mounted warriors, camped five miles to the east a thousand pikemen waited with Lady Delryn's swordmaster and general, Jonaten Vault. Nalia had (_quite aptly too_, thought Algerias) surmised that anything that required greater forces would have been noticed by her scryings.

As more and more people noticed their approach, and as the column drew nearer to the city, Algerias could see crowds gathering. They had seen the banners of the standard bearers, no doubt. He could hear cheering, and enthusiastic shouting. No doubt they thought Nalia would be here, but the archmage had decided that the plotters were more likely to show themselves if they thought they could succeed against Lady Delryn. Few were brave enough to attempt the destruction of the Open Councillor.

_Not yet, at least._

From the gatehouse, came the brazen sound of trumpets, and Algerias saw the gates open slowly. A small column or riders - about ten, he judged - spurred themselves forward. The crowds scattered. Algerias, ever cautious, dropped his hand into his component pouch and pulled out a ball of sulphur and bat guano, ready to summon a fireball to protect Lady Delryn. Looking around, he saw the paladins, unconcerned. _They always like to reason things out peacefully, before attacking, the light-worshipping fools._

Algerias did not like paladins, and found that the silver-armoured warriors reciprocated that feeling exactly. They could sense his dark soul, that he knew. They had even begged Nalia to remove him from her inner council, but in this, Nalia's soft heart allowed her to be iron-like in her firmness. He remembered her words, that cracked like thunder, perfectly.

"_Sirs,"_ she had said,"_Algerias has proved himself to me many times over. Am I any worse than the most evil of tyrants if I remove him from my presence because of his affinity for darkness? I serve good, and remain fair and just - and I expect him to do so. Until he breaks a law, I will not disown my friends."_

Friends.

Algerias had no friends, and even he had snorted at her use of that word. But the more he thought of it, the more he had grown to like it. Nalia had been kind to him, had shown him loyalty since she had become ruler. She had forgiven him when he told her he had once been loyal to the High Cowl - after all, she had suspected it already. As long as she never found out about his murders, done for her cause, he could easily imagine himself remaining loyal to her. From a purely selfish point of view, if he removed Nalia, he would have no-one to protect him from the cowled wizards and the retribution he knew would come.

The riders drew closer, and, as Elizabeth reined in her mount, Algerias did the same. Sir Lloyd, the paladin in command, called, "Column, halt!"

In silence, they waited.

As the ten riders approached, Algerias studied them intently. One caught his attention immediately. A soft-featured, blond-haired man in silks, who rode with a little difficulty. He looked like a dandy and his eyes wandered with ill-concealed glee over the armoured men in the column. _A man-eater_, Algerias commented drily in his head, and stored the face in his mind for potential blackmail or bribery. Another was a man all in black cloth, of the finest weave, but black cloth nonetheless. Black hair was cropped short, and his grey eyes darted with irritation at the dandy. Algerias could read the falseness in that gaze though, as easily as he could read the professional way in which he rode and the way one hand remained at all times near, or on, the hilt of his blade. _An experienced warrior, who is playing at hating the dandy._ Other than soldiers, the only other man of interest was elderly, with bedraggled beard and tired eyes. He was pointedly ignoring the dandy and the black-clad warrior. _A representative of another faction in the city, then? _

There was a long, tense silence, until the elderly man spoke, bowing in the saddle, "Lady Delryn, welcome to Murann. We received a magically sent missive from the Lady de'Arnise, informing us of your imminent arrival. I am Lord Doffspur, Chamberlain of the Court. The late Lord Firecam appointed me as ruler in his will." He paused there, and Algerias noted that there was much left unsaid. With his voice, a deep-throated affair that hovered on the edge of frailty, he continued, "This," as he pointed to the dandy, "is Massan Iverlorn, the son of..."

"I know who he is," Elizabeth said instantly, and Algerias kept his face composed, to hide the fact that he was deeply impressed. But the new ruler of Murann did not stop there. Quickly, her words curt and her tone broaching on impatience, but seeming very dignified at the same time, she said, "He is the son of Lord Iverlorn, who has established a profitable trading coster in Maztica. The most able student of... arithmetic, Murann has seen in years."

The dandy blinked, and, uneasily, it seemed, sketched a bow which caused his horse to skip once to the side, before he frantically righted the animal. Elizabeth coninuted speaking then, as the chamberlain opened his mouth to introduce the other man, "And I also know of Lord Tell Marivaun, commander of three garrisons in the south. After... what was it... three superiors died?"

Her gaze found Marivaun, and fixed him with a steely gaze, her brow quirked in silent question. "Well?" she asked, when no answer was forthcoming.

Reluctantly, Marivaun murmured, "Five."

Elizabeth smiled sweetly, even if she was completely insincere, "Lucky you." Her eyes wandered over the men-at-arms who were straight-backed and formal, and she nodded once. "I also know of Arrival Broad. Commander of the Golden Stars Mercenary Company."

Lord Doffspur gaped, and turned to face the man Elizabeth addressed. "Arrival Broad was forbidden to leave the city, by the regency council..." Even though he was old, his words carried a hint of a threat, and Algerias noted with interest that although the dandy Iverlorn and Marivaun snorted, they looked away, as if scared, or at least wary. It seemed as if the chamberlain carried some power, then, and was not just a figurehead.

"Since I am now Lady of Murann, I give Arrival Broad my permission to remain in my presence. Though I would like him to discuss the reasons behind this forbiddance..."

And then Algerias began to think less, and to read with as much instinctive understanding as he could, the expressions on the faces of the nobles, merchant and mercenary, along with the inflections in their voices. _They fancy themselves difficult to read_, _but they are more transparent than the stupidest cowled wizard_. Algerias had, alongside his brother, learned the hard way, that as a cowled wizard, honesty was fatal. Born a bastard out of deceit, and raised by a consummate lier, alongside a cunning brother in an organisation so filled with intrigue it made Zhentil Keep look pleasant, Algerias considered himself one of the more adept deceivers out here. And these men would not know what hit them, when he began to work in his silent ways.

* * *

Clothed in non-descript clothing of brown trousers and a cream-coloured shirt, Algerias stalked through the sewers of the city with an ease that had come from years of nefarious deeds. His short hair and finely trimmed goatee were less noticeable, with the charcoal that he had smudged over his face to blend in with the dark shadows of the undercity. Flint-grey eyes gazed warily around him, with one hand kept always on his spellpouch, the other occasionally patting the backpack slung over his shoulder, which held his spellbook. Around his neck, a necklace set with a diamond provided enough light for him to see within the dark sewers of Murann.

Algerias had lived for nearly thirty-nine years, but certain spells and draughts had kept his handsome appearance. It could not be said that he was pretty. With his deep voice, self-assured and confident, and his strongly-muscled form, weakness, or effeminacy of any kind was far away indeed. And so he was unconcerned as he walked through the rippling waters. Many of the sewer systems were completely destroyed, but enough of them remained, that Algerias could find his way to where he wanted to be with enough thought.

_Time to seek an old ally_, he had told himself when it became obvious Nalia would ask him to journey south to aid Lady Delryn. And so, he had travelled into Athkatla's sewers, to send the ally south to Murann, where he would wait for Algerias to make contact. As the wizard passed a shattered culvert that intermittently sprayed or trickled clean water, he found that he was smiling. His ally and his loyal warriors would be perfect for the jobs Algerias wanted done. Murder, intimidation, bribery, robbery, perhaps even arson. After just one afternoon in Murann, meeting delegates, nobles and merchants alongside Elizabeth, Algerias already had a considerable list of targets, and it would be impossible for him to strike at them all on his own.

_Help was required._

A sudden slap of a foot in the water behind him made him turn. In the shadows, two men moved, blades held before them. He clenched his fists, and turned to faced them, calling, "Can I help you two gentlemen with anything? I am rather busy, you see..."

One of them guffawed. "Help 'im? Help Guzga an' Marlon? Well... iffen it's not the cocky noble wizard wiv the bitch lady from the north... what do you say, Guzga, we want 'is 'elp wiv anyfink?"

The other man shrugged, and then shook his head.

"Didn' fink so... you see, cocky-man, Guzga don't speak much. He's Guzga the Silent, dontcha know, an' well... we've bin asked to get ye outta the way."

Algerias snorted. "I see. Well... thank you for clarifying that. I will have to disillusion you... you see, I'm a wizard, and I want you to _die_!"

He flung his hand forward as he said it, but blinked when his blast of fire bounced off a magic shield that had gone unnoticed in the dark. Algerias cursed, as the two men moved forward, extremely fast. One moved to the right, another to the left. Algerias panicked, and stepped backwards, only to trip on a loose piece of rock. Two blades flashed down, and then Algerias' contingencies sprang up.

Stone turned the slashes of the blades.

Standing up quickly now, Algerias turned first to Marlon. He began to incant several arcane syllables, and then gestured roughly. A line of purplse magic leaped from his finger, to the attacker. Instantly, Marlon began to scream, as the magic tore pieces of skin from his body. Blood sprayed across the black walls of the sewers, some of it splashing Algerias. Terrified, the screams continued, until Marlon lay in the rushing water, a mass of torn flesh, rather than a man. Algerias turned now to Guzga, who, even in the dim light offered by Algerias' glowing necklace, paled. Guzga started to run, and Algerias grinned.

Spinning his fingers swiftly, he finished chanting a brief spell. _Something_ flickered between him and Guzga, a sense of heat, more than anything, and next minute, the would-be murderer was doubled over in pain. Algerias watched, with some relish, as Guzga started to writhe around. His eyes found Algerias', as if begging for release from this pain. Minutely, Algerias shook his head, watching as Guzga bit his lip.

Blood trickled down his chin, and Algerias chuckled quietly as he saw the blood beginning to burn into the pale skin. Beltyn's Burning Blood was a terrible, agonising spell, which turned the blood to molten flame. It would kill the victim slowly, and was rather easy to dispel. But without a wizard present, Algerias was free to stand there, arms folded, watching the man writhe.

After two minutes, Guzga the Silent started to scream.

After five minutes, there was a charred, blackened figure floating in the sewage of the city.

With a grin, Algerias turned from the dead man, to continue through the shadows of the sewer. In Athkatla, it was difficult to get away with such ostentatious murders, even in the sewers, and he took Nalia's trust in him seriously. But in Murann, however, Nalia was far away, and sometimes the woman did not know what would aid her cause. It felt incredible, to finally be able to enjoy himself. Algerias licked his lips at the thought of what he could do in the name of his ruler - _her power will be unquestionable!_

Algerias entertained himself by imagining his ruler on a seat of power to rival that of any king, with the Council of Six removed forever, with the people screaming her name with love, with the merchants cowed into submission and the nobles too worried by blackmail to act against her. With Nalia's goodness, and Algerias' willingness to go the extra mile that Nalia would never contemplate, Amn could be great again!

"You're late," a black figure said in an exotic voice, when Algerias arrived at the pre-determined location. Red eyes gleamed from the shadows.

Shrugging, Algerias murmured, "I was delayed."

"I know," spat the accented tongue, "I was watching. You are quite impressive, although I still think that the wizards of Menzoberranzan would humble you in an instant, Algerias."

And into the dim light, strode Algerias' ally, a tall, well-muscled drow with a face to strike horror into anyone who beheld it - it was a mass of twisted, scarred, burned flesh.

"Greetings, Fil'zar," Algerias said in the drow tongue.

* * *

Above them, the city of Murann slumbered. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Valygar Corthala swept into the courtyard at the head of his patrol. Drawing his two katanas with one lithe, fluid motion, he snapped to the legionnairres, "Quickly! Take the doors! Get the crossbowmen to cover the windows!" As he shouted orders, he looked around for Temmeus, one of three wizards who were adjoined to the garrison in Athkatla. "Temmeus, be ready, in case they have a caster!"

The elderly wizard, whose one eye was white, blind, and who walked with an obvious limp, had served in Maztica since the lands in the west had been discovered, and had been rewarded with estates in Amn, for his services in pacifying the savages there. Yet retirement apparently did not agree with the battle-mage, and although he was finding it difficult to keep up with the fast-moving patrols Valygar had implemented as Chief Inspector, his experience and aid was invaluable. The wizard nodded, and chanted a brief spell. Valygar knew enough of magic to recognise the words - a spell to keep simple missiles from harming him.

Suppressing a shudder, Valygar moved forward, to stand beside the two legionnairres who were pounding at the heavy oaken doors with a small, buy heavy, battering ram. The Chief Inspector of Amn despised magic. His admiration for Nalia had tempered that view somewhat - after all, her magic had delivered his country, but she was one of the few wizards he liked. Even Temmeus, he treated with a certain degree of suspicion.

From within the house, came a sudden clatter.

Valygar frowned, trying to work out what the sounds signified. Then, he blinked, and made an urgent gesture to the men beside him, shouting, "Back! Away from the door! They have soldiers! Temmeus," he yelled at the wizard as he sprinted away from the door, angling to one side, to position himself behind a pillar. "When the door is opened, send a fireball into the soldiers!"

The wizard nodded.

"Crossbowmen, aim for the doorway!"

The Chief Inspector of Amn gazed around the nobleman's courtyard. It was archetypical, for Amn. A low wall surrounded the manse, easily scaled by the professional soldiers under his command. However, the house itself was a sturdy affair, with but one door. Many balconies provided some hope of infiltration, but Valygar did not want to risk storming the house by asking his heavily-armoured legionairres to scale a wall with only the aid of weak vines. Which meant that his force was gathered in the large courtyard, some crouching behind rose bushes, some, like him, standing behind the pillars which supported the balconies.

The merchant family of Arawn who owned this manse, it had been discovered, were trading in slaves in one of the organised enclaves of illicit dealing within the sewers. It was a veritable badge of honour for Valygar, that after two years as Chief Inspector, he had cleaned the streets of the organised smuggling cartels. Unfortunately, he did not have enough manpower, nor did he believe he ever would, to purge the sewers and then keep it patrolled. The undercity was the new centre for the crimelords of Athkatla, and the only way to get at them was to target their holdings above ground.

"Look to the door," one of the soldiers called out.

The doors slammed open, but Valygar could not immediately see how many soldiers he was dealing with, for Temmeus, true to his Art, had unleashed a fireball that burst into a plume of flame that flared bright. Valygar heard the click of crossbows, and saw a small hail of black death rush in the wake of the magical blast. He heard the groans of anguish from those who were hit, heard the screams of those burned by the flames. Above him, he heard the tramp of iron-clad feet on the balcony above. Turning to the crossbowmen, the first rank of which was kneeling as the second rank fired now, in a time-honoured tactical movement. "Fire at the windows! Stop them from flanking us!"

And then he was moving, shouting for the first division of troops to move in. He had five divisions of ten men each at his disposal, two of which were crossbowmen, three of which were equipped with pikes and short-swords. His enchanted katanas flashed in the firelight, and Valygar swept into the press of dying soldiers, fire and smoke. He wore no helmet, and his family armour was scratched from the battling he had done this year, yet he was not afraid. Nalia's magic had enchanted his armour beyond its normal powers, and he saw the benefits of her magic, when he noticed that the searing hot flames were retreating from him. The crimson sash he wore across his waist that marked him as Chief Inspector, and the signet ring on his bare hands, made him a target, for soon a pike was thrust towards him.

Batting it to one side with one of his blades, he stepped inside its reach, and his other blade bit into the neck of his attacker. There was a pained, startled gurgle, and Valygar saw a shadowy form drop to the ground with a rattling thud. Someone within the house was ordering the defenders to drop pikes, and draw swords. Sure enough, Valygar was soon fending off an attack with a shortsword, though the motion, a thrusting one, was clumsy. He side-stepped the attack, and kicked out. His leather-booted foot encountered heavy armour, but his kick was hard enough to knock the warrior off balance, long enough for him to slip one katana into his groin, through a gap in the armour.

He heard a movement behind him, and twirled, his movement swift indeed, as he was unencumbered by the heavy armour the rest of the combatants wore. His family katana blocked an attack by a dagger, and his other blade moved in to slice towards a neck, but he blinked when his swift attack was parried by a second blade. Valygar stepped back, his eyes stinging from the smoke that was surrounding him. _From a single fireball?_ he asked himself, wonderingly. The smoke should have long faded, by now...

Allowing the attacker to make the next move paid off. Although Valygar could not see much, save for the reflection of orange flames in the steel armour, he could see that whoever it was who wielded these two blades was not entirely skilled in the use of both of them. That lack of skill was fatal, as Valygar unleashed a flurry of movement, which soon left another corpse on the floor.

"Temmeus," Valygar shouted, coughing for a moment after it, as he inhaled smoke, "do something about this damned smoke! Second division move in! Third, standy by!"

He heard the jingle of his own troops' armour as more of them entered the fray. In the world of shadows and smoke, of hot sweat and wet, sticky blood, Valygar felt the line of the enemy soldiers give way, shift, weaken, and then collapse. Leaping forward, he struck to his left and right, in a move that felled two warriors. A gust of wind, powerful and fierce, started blowing from his right, and he saw the smoke beginning to clear.

The courtyard was filled with the dead and dying. The doors were closed again. His two divisions of crossbowmen had lost two soldiers. He saw quarrels sticking from their chests. Their had obviously been a firefight between them and those warriors on the roof. Of the two divisions he had sent in to battle, the first had lost three men, the second just one. There were perhaps twenty dead defenders. Yet he had no idea, still, how many more remained in the house.

"Third division, break the door! First and second, rest! Healer!"

His last, hoarse shout, was directed to the priest of Tyr who he had kept safe outside even the perimeter of the walls. He turned, to see a robed, youthful man, running forward. Judith Blaize was a relative unknown in the social circles of Amn, but in the religious circles, he was viewed with a mixture of amusement and respect. First, for his name, which was obviously meant for someone with breasts, he was treated as a joke. But second, for his healing power and his piety, he was treated with respect. Valygar had heard Nalia suggest that Judith might one day grow to be extremely influential in the temples of Amn. For that reason, Valygar had offered the man experience in battle, with the garrison.

Valygar took a swig of water from his hip-flask, and sat down, watching as Judith dashed between the three divisions who had been in battle, summoning the healing magic of his god for serious wounds, and binding the minor wounds with salves. The heavy thud of the battering ram against the door beat a cadence in the courtyard. Reaching into his pouch for a leather cord, Valygar re-bound his braided locks into a ponytail. Somehow, the binding had come apart in the battle, and he did not want to risk his hair obscuring his vision in midst battle. He had been lucky that it had not happened in the battle that had just finished.

After two years, Valygar had changed greatly. In one way, in the new scars that adorned his body and face, he had, according to Nalia, lost his instantly handsome features, though he had never considered himself attractive. However, all who knew him said his eyes, which used to be hollow and dark with the desire for revenge on all wizards, were now deeper. He had experienced more, and had seen the depths of human depravity, within the gutters of Athkatla. Something in him had changed. He had lost his rabid hatred of wizards, tempered by the fact that he saw that acts of terrible evil were committed as often against a wife by her husband, as by a power-addicted lich consumed by magic.

He stood then, as he saw the hinges of the oaken doors buckle once with a metallic groan.

Temmeus was readying a spell, without being told.

The crossbowmen were loading their weapons.

Two divisions out of three were readying a charge into the house.

Valygar smiled thinly. House Arawn would receive the full weight of Amnian justice, this day.

* * *

Still reeking of sweat and blood, Valygar strode into the sombrely decorated council chamber where Nalia and her five councillors conducted the business of the day. In chains behind him, were dragged Lord Nihmvail Arawn, with his wife Alietta and his twenty-six year old son. The rest of his family, one son aged twelve and several daughters all younger, were kept under house arrest in their townhouse, guarded by those legionairres who had served under Valygar for the full two years he had remained in his position, earning his trust.

The archmage de'Arnise stood, wearing the plain black cloth robes with a cloth-of-gold cloak that had become her garb of state. Along with the family crest that adorned her right breast, and a simple gold circlet that framed her temple. Upon seeing Valygar, she smiled, "Welcome, dear friend, welcome. I see the day has gone well. But," she paused, her expression sad, "were there many casualties?"

Valygar sighed, "More than ever I would want, but less than there could have been. He had a mage. Temmeus lies in a critical condition in the temple of the Even-handed God. I have myself paid for his healing. All in all, we lost thirteen. But we have apprehended the Lord Arawn, so I deliver him to you now."

He stepped to one side, wondering inside as he always did upon seeing Nalia, at the change in his friend. Her eyes were strained by the pressures of rulership. There were a few tiny threads of grey already in her hair, and she was only about twenty years of age. Although beautiful, there was a haggard, pained expression about her, and Valygar wanted more than anything to be able to take the problems that must weight her down, and lighten her load. But he would never demean her by asking, and he knew she was too strong of will to ask it of him.

So he stood in silence, watching as Nalia stepped forward to gaze at Lord Arawn, a fat, bulbuous man who would have looked grand in his silks, were he not bearing an expression that transformed his face into what was almost a parody of hatred. Behind Nalia, the five council members, in their silver masks, stood in silence. Valygar did not know the identities of the council members - none did, but he knew that some of them must have allies in the houses that Nalia was pursuing for their crimes against the state. For too long, she said, the rich and the nobility, had existed as if they could act as they wished, expecting no retribution for their crimes. As soon as she was delivered action, Nalia would implement justice according to the law, not according to the old method of bribery and favours in exchange of an 'imperial pardon'.

Turning to one of the guards, she sighed, and spoke gently, "Remove their gags if you would, goodman."

The guard nodded, and with a respectful bow of his head to Nalia, reached down, and first undid the gag that prevented Nihmvail from speaking. As soon as the gag was off, the lord drew in a deep breath, and screamed, "You cannot do this, you have no right! No _right_!"

Valygar, with his hands clasped behind his back, bowed his head so he was able to smile ever so faintly. The protests of those brought to face Nalia very rarely changed form. Always, it was nobles bellowing about the legitimacy of Nalia's rule, gibbering about tradition and such like. And Nalia always treated it with the same medicine.

Smiling softly, Nalia simply ignored Nihmvail.

"Nihmvail, of House Arawn, an imperial court has found you guilty of high treason, exhortation to murder, smuggling and rape, according to the evidence given by many witnesses who underwent examinations of truth. As well, documents have been located proving your connections to gangs in the undercity. It has been revealed that you have taken money from those known as the Twisted Rune, in exchange for secrets about the defensive capabilities of Amn."

Arawn stuttered, before chocking, "You had the trial without my presence? That is _not_ lawful!"

Nalia spoke, "If the defendant does not answer the summons of a court, the court has the right to appoint an impartial priest of Tyr to speak on behalf of the defendant, allowing the trial to be conducted in his absence, that justice may be brought to this land. Now, as for your sentence," her eyes, still sad, stared a long time at the noble on the floor before her. "We of the council have taken advice from the priests of Justice, and we have decided that you are to be executed on the morrow, in the market square, as a public example to Amn. Your holdings have been confiscated by the crown. My general is on his way to disband your mercenaries and your house guards. Your wife and your children shall be given enough money to make their way in the world, but they will lose their vast fortune and their titles, and all the priveliges it provides."

The lady Alietta shrieked, then, "What? We become like the chattel of this city? This is preposterous!"

The son nodded his head emphatically, "Ridiculous! Ludicrous!"

Neither of them seemed particularly bothered about the impending death. Nalia ignored their protests, and nodded to the guards, "Take the lady Alietta and her son, and re-unite them with their family. Then, escort them to the streets, provide them with the money I have set aside for them, and let them go. Remove the traitor to the cells, and give him his last meal according to tradition."

And then she turned away, ignoring the impotent shouts of the remnants of House Arawn, all three.

When the council chamber was emptied of the guilty, Nalia sighed, and took a seat at the table that adorned the room. One of the council members spoke, the voice in peculiarly monotone, obviously the result of a spell to hide the gender of the council member from detection. "Who then, shall govern the holdings of House Arawn, Open Councillor?"

Nalia said, "I have received your recommendations, and find that the cousins of the Arawn family, or distant relatives, are inadequate. Consider this proposal, if you will. Valygar," she said, beckoning him to join them. "Who was the woman that was assaulted by Nihmvail, three weeks ago? She was the daughter of a merchant he ahd murdered, if I you remember...?"

Valygar nodded. He remembered exactly. Both the murder and the assault had been horrifying. Many in the garrison said it was worse that the young woman had survived. _Better dead than bearing a monster's child_, they said. But the woman loved her unborn child, clung to it as the only remnant of a life she had once had with a father, mother and prosperous business. "Harrietti Marllon, councillor."

There was a long silence, until another of the masked councillors said, "You wish to raise one of the commons to the nobility?"

Although the spell kept the voice monotonous, Valygar knew the councillor was furious. They did not balk at Nalia's swift justice any more, or if they did, they did so in private. What they despised, was the incredibly logical, but entirely unorthodox way, in which she acted. In the recent history of Amn, even if a noble was found guilty and executed, their sons would still inherit. Nalia had removed them of that idea. The nobility must learn responsibilities. If they harmed one of the common people, and were executed, their descendants would lose all rights to the House. The victim would then, depending on their abilities, be given control of the House. Simple justice, but it made many of the nobles furious.

"Of course."

Valygar watched Nalia's back stiffen. It was a motion imperceptible to any but him. But after two years of watching the Open Councillor battling the other five every inch of the way she had to travel for a new Amn, he could recognise it instantly. His heart thudded once with acute pity. She would be here for hours, she knew, arguing, cajoling, perhaps even resorting to offering the five council members lucrative trading deals or something to sweeten the deal for her. After all, it was still Amn, no matter how much Nalia wanted to change the nation, and certain things still revolved around one thing.

Gold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

It was a different world.

The sky of the forest canopy, was a shifting mass of sun-speckled green, the untold thousands of leaves breaking the light of the sun into hundreds of tiny shafts of golden light. Trees, some of which were thicker than human towers, stood like vast elementals, as if they were pillars of heaven supporting the sky. Damp and musty decaying leaves gave the trees the nourishment they needed to survive with the sparse rainfall that very rarely touched the branch-covered forest floor. The expanse of forest was a realm of murky shadow, with each piece of wood possessing an acute sense of history that clung to its bark.

Jaheira found the forest of Tethir beautiful. No, more than beautiful. To her eyes, it was as if the soul of nature existed within this realm. In the occasional slink of a deer through the thickets, in the sound of birds as they flew to their nests, in the scuttling of beetles underfoot... in all the multitudes of natural wonder, she found contentment, release and happiness.

In any forest, and especially this one, there are islands amidst the sea of murky emerald. Perhaps they are places where lightning might have struck a small section, setting it ablaze. After the conflagration, the light of the sun able to warm unobscured, the ground. Rainfall would clear away the ash and black, and grass would begin to sprout, delicate fairy fingers compared to the brutish strength of the trees. The balancing act of nature, forming glades within the heaven of the trees, for in those glades, the deer would graze. Bluebells would bloom on the edge of the shadows, sparkles of blue. Flowers would erupt joyously in the centre, bathed in the sun that was so rare in the rest of the forest.

It was in those glades, that the elves of Tethir, the forest _they_ called the Wealdath, danced.

Jaheira closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply.

Two years, she had spent beneath the canopies of Tethir, working to restore the Balance of nature. When Nalia had named her Lady of the Forest, some nobles had snickered, but Jaheira did not care for nobles. For _this_ was her kingdom, and she had established her rule over her territory with consummate skill. Oh, the elves now had a legal right to this place, and their rangers wandered it with their graceful skill, but it was Jaheira who _governed_ the land outside the elven city, who knew everything that happened within it, and even the elves in their racial arrogance accepted this was true. Everything in the forest listened to her words, and she listened to everything in the forest, for such was the way of the Balance.

Not many people could understand Jaheira's approach to the Balance, which often had her making actions that Khalid would never have approved of.

For example, when she had first arrived in Tethir, she had hunted the many bands of orcs, hobgoblins and such like, until they were fragments of their former selves. Now though, Jaheira left them alone, to recover slowly, in their dark caves. Nature had created the dark creatures for a reason, and it was not Jaheira's responsibility to destroy beyond any hope of recovery, anything that Nature had formed. The elves would not understand that approach. They saw the creatures as their enemies, and so had tried to continue the hunting. Jaheira had stopped that in its tracks, informing Queen Ellesime that Jaheira would fight the elves if they continued in their path to destroy the few remaining tribes.

Jaheira had not been welcome in the elven city of Suldanessllar since.

In the brush behind her, she heard a rustling of leaves, and she turned, to gaze into the shadows. From the press of tangled branches, slithered a snake, with peculiar blue markings glistening on its scales. The druid smiled, and asked, "Are you lost, brother Mikel?"

The snake hissed once, and with a sinuous wriggle, changed. It happened in the blink of an eye. One moment a snake brushed along the ground, the next, a brown-robed man stood, his face covered in dirt, his long brown hair matted, with twigs and leaves threaded into the stands of hair with strings of animal hair. He carried a staff, and around his neck, a wooden symbol of Silvanus hung. He bowed once, extremely low, "Grand Druid, I bring word from the northern enclave, as to your authority over them."

Jaheira quirked a brow, "Indeed? And what do our brothers and sisters there say?"

For two years, Jaheira had been attempting to unite the druids of the Sword Coast. Chaotic and jumbled, loosely organised and often adhering only to their own principles, it was a difficult task. The first druids she had spoken with had been openly hostile. "_You will submerge us into a mire of autonomous rule under your rule!"_ some said. Others, "_How can one person know what is best for an entire region?_" Yet those Jaheira had managed to win round. She did not wish to impose rules, but did wish to have all druids gathered under her leadership. That leadership would be open to challenge at any time. And that leadership would be largely inspirational, except in matters that threatened the entire region, in which case a druidmoot would be called, by the Grand Druid who in this instance happened to be Jaheira.

Mikel shrugged, and scratched his chin. It was scraggly with hair. Most druids did not shave, but Mikel shaved more than most. Even so, he did so infrequently, and so his chin was streaked with dark hairs which he was constantly scratching. "They've agreed to come to a moot at nightfall, here in the forest, in the glade by the storm-blasted oak, near the stream by the cave of Glumfist the black bear."

Jaheira nodded. "Have Dendril bring his circle to the glade. I will travel south into Tethyr, to inform the rest."

The northern enclaves, the druidic circles that tended the lands around Candlekeep and the mountains around Nashkel, had been extremely stubborn concerning Jaheira's request. Although the southern enclaves had agreed to abide under Jaheira's nominal leadership as seniormost druid, other druids had named them traitors to the druidic way. If the northern enclavse did not agree to abide under Jaheira's leadership, it could create unrest between druids on a scale not seen before. Quite often, two druids would clash over their individual ideas on what should happen to the land. In that case, a battle of power would commence which was rarely fatal. The winner would decide what would happen. Such was the way of nature.

If the northern enclaves decided to move against the southern enclaves, it would not be just a simple issue of single druids duelling. No, it would be a vast conflict between at least a hundred druids, with actions that would seriously devastate nature. Jaheira sighed. Tonight, she would have to argue well against whatever spokesperson was nominated by the northern enclaves.

As Mikel dissappeared, this time into the form of a blue-tailed falcon, Jaheira nodded. Focusing her mind, she shifted to the shape of a golden eagle. With a parting shriek to the falcon, Jaheira soared upwards, out of the glade, into the open sky, riding the thermals south to Tethyr, where her allies waited for her word to come to a moot. As she flew, she fancied that she felt Nature hold its breath...

_That might be arrogance on my part, though_, she thought almost apologetically. _Nature will recover, whatever happens. It always does._

* * *

The silver-blue gaze of Selune's orb bathed the glade in a soft-hued light. The bluebells in particular, seemed to shine with magical energy, even though Jaheira knew it was just a trick of the light. Yet she did have the impression that this night was special. She waited, wearing her own wooden amulet of Silvanus, with her hair tied back into a ponytail and carrying a staff she had crafted last year, with the blessing of Silvanus himself. As she waited, the staff seemed warm to the touch, and she let it rest on the ground, where it almost imperceptibly pulsed, becoming part of the delicate webs of energies that governed the natural world.

Every so often, from the forest around them, a druid would appear, some bearing the symbols of Silvanus, just as she did, others serving Chauntea, Eldath, Mielikki, Gwaerom... all the gods of nature and the forest were represented in the druidic circles, and all had come to see what Jaheira once-of Tethyr had to say about the crisis that had come upon their order.

The hours passed. Although many druids around her were chatting, informally perched on rocks, or stumps of trees, Jaheira stood in silence. Her neck was tense, her eyes fixed on the sky, where she knew her key challenge would come from. Word had reached her just an hour ago, of who the challenger to her authority would be. _Phillar the Peregrin._ A venerable druid, who had served Silvanus for seventy years, he carried great respect within the druidic world. He would argue against her with great skill.

Speaking suddenly, from the forest, a musical voice swilled through the muted chatter. "The stars indeed are shining on the hour of our meeting, druidess."

Jaheira turned, and was struck with a memory from two years ago, when she had met the same elf guarding the entrance to Suldanessllar. _She stared at the elf standing in front of her. He wore green robes with gold trim, of a light silken material. Over those robes, he wore gleaming green chainmail that reached just above his knees. Bracers of green metal clasped the arms of his robes to him, accentuating the paleness of his skin. His long brown hair was braided, and a small band of emerald cloth bound it and kept it from his eyes. Even to Jaheira, he was attractive, his brown eyes filled with a knowledge and mystery that astounded her._

Dimly, she cast about for a name, finding it in ten seconds, "Eldeth?"

His nod confirmed it, and his face lit up into a smile, "The very same, Jaheira. I am delighted that you remember me."

Her heart fluttered again, as it had done so those two years ago, but her will was steel, and she nodded. "I am good with names." She fixed his incredible eyes with an imperious, flinty gaze that used to cow even Imoen and Kathryn. "You are here for the druidmoot, then? I am pleased that the elves wish to be represented, even though many of them refuse to answer any of my calls."

A delighted laugh, typical of the elven sense of whimsy and humour, leaped from his throat, "The People will do what the People will. You of all people should know this." He stepped backwards. "The beautiful Ellesime asked me to tell your brethren this... _once all is decided, let there be a dance, to celebrate in the joy the nature can provide._ The Queen herself might depart Suldanessllar this night, to dance alongside the druids, who have for centuries guarded the sanctity of these lands, which the elves prize above many things."

Jaheira nodded. "I bid you welcome."

"As do I," a deep-throated, commanding voice intoned.

An expectant hush fell over the gathered druids, and even Eldeth stepped backwards into the treeline, to watch the approach of Phillar. The old druid moved with the grace of a wolf, his stride a smooth, elegant lope. His bear was long and grey, decorated with beads and leaves. He wore a symbol of Silvanus around his neck. He wore fur trousers, but nothing on his torso, which was painted with symbols sacred to his God. His ice-blue eyes fixed Jaheira with a calm gaze, and then he bowed, very low. "Jaheira once-of Tethyr, I bid you greetings, and ask for the blessings of Silvanus upon the glades you guard."

Jaheira nodded, and also bowed low. "Phillar the Peregrin, I return your greetings, and beseech with equal fervous the same blessings. Welcome to the druidsmoot."

The silence continued, and then Phillar spoke, his voice carrying further, shivering with authority, "An ant hive is governed by one queen bee, and he mind allows the ants to live according to specific tasks. Fighter ants guard the hive, worker ants gather food. Nature has a place for the strictest of order. Yet if the queen dies, the hive falls to mindless chaos, and nature's harmony is disrupted."

There was several mutters at that, but Jaheira spoke then, her crystal voice slicing through the half-gathered discord.

"A wolf-pack is governed by laws of tradition, by a strong sense of order. By rite of battle, the wolves decide upon an alpha male who decides which reaches to hunt, which paths to take. The alpha male can be flexible, allowing for adaptation, but even if he is not, another wolf would grow to challenge him. For wolves, the order works, and nature's harmony is kept intact."

Even from some of the northern enclave druids, there were murmurs of agreement.

Phillar started to speak his response, and as Jaheira listened to the subtelty of his arguments, she could easily see why this druid was so respected. His analogies were brilliantly original! It was a tradition, that at the druidmoot, discussions would not take place with the structures of civilisation, with phillosophy and arithmetical logic. No, for discussions of nature by druids, analagous declarations were used, placing the subject up for debate into the context of nature, which is what Phillar had begun, and what Jaheira had continued. The issue at stake was order and leadership, so it was up to Phillar to find instances where such was bad for the Balance, and it was up to Jaheira to find instances where it was beneficial.

Slowly at first, then increasing speed, Jaheira and Phillar exchanges declarations, each one becoming successively more and more complicated. Above them, the moon gleamed bright, and the stars twinkled. Around them, the sounds of the wild creatures in the forest occasionally barking or braying could be heard. It became clear, halfway through the exchange of arguments, that neither Phillar or Jaheira would budge an inch. Yet tradition dictated that they continue to the end, and so they did, Jaheira's high, regal tones rising in sharp counterpart to Phillar's deep voice. Finally, after Jaheira had spoken for the final time, Phillar looked around the glade, his dark eyes fixing each druid in turn. "Shall we ask for our brethren to decide, sister?"

Jaheira nodded. "Of course."

Phillar said, his voice loud, "For constancy, shout nay! For change, shout aye!"

The glade erupted into a loud din of shouting druids, each faction trying to be heard above the others. Jaheira noted that there were a few of her own druids shouting nay, and some of Phillar's shouting aye. _Stalemate,_ thought Jaheira bleakly, and as she glanced at Phillar, and saw a strange, sad little smile brush across his lips, she knew he had seen the same.

She raised her hand, and called, "Silence! The Argument of Example has been unsuccessful. The Argument of Druidic Support has failed. It leaves but one course of action."

It was Phillar who finished, his voice dark with forboding, "The Argument of Strength."

* * *

The druids of the two groups gathered in a large circle. Every druid present, had stripped of clothing and gear. It was tradition that in trials of strength, all came, fighting or merely watching, as they had arrived to the world. Few druids had any problem with nudity, but even those that did, would have driven those concerns to one side. In a trial of strength, a holy duel between two druids, all who were gathered had their minds fixed on the bleak outcome that could be ahead of them if there was another stalemate. The future of co-operation between druids in the Sword Coast rested on this battle, due to the intransigency of the two views, one which supported chaos, another which supported order.

Jaheira stood in the centre, her naked form marked with blue paint that glistened in the moonlight. Directly in front of her, Phillar waited with his arms folded. One druid, who possessed a steel razor, extremely rare, had shaved the magnificent beard of the old druid. It was a shame, but Jaheira knew a beard, just like her long hair, was a weakness that he could not afford. For that reason, Jaheira had asked the druid to cut her own hair, and now the auburn locks were shorn close to her scalp.

Another druid who had been named adjudicator, stood between the two, the only druid in the glade who was still able to hold a staff, by tradition.

He looked from Jaheira to Phillar, before asking, "Are the two combatants ready?"

Jaheira answered immediately, "Yes," and her word came at exactly the same moment as Phillar's answer. The adjudicator nodded, and then raised his staff to the night's sky. "Then I dedicate this battle of strength to the Balance, and Nature. Let the idea that will strengthen nature be victorious, according to the will of the gods who guard its beauty!"

And, stepping out of the ring, the adjudicator slammed his staff upon a rock.

The duel began.

Jaheira uttered a prayer immediately, and great strength flowed through her form. Her muscles strengthened. She could sense them tightening and hardening. As soon as she had finished chanting, however, Phillar smirked, and in an instant, rushed towards her. His form changed as he moved, in one fluid, brilliant piece of shapeshifting. He was a wolf, and he slammed into her with a howl of challenge!

Knowing that she had a few seconds to fight back before he held her in a death grip that would end the duel instantly, Jaheira punched at the beast's midriff. Her fighter's instincts were still strong, and, aided by her prayer, the strike was a good one. She heard the wolf yelp, and fall back, jaws snapping with ferocity towards her. Jaheira stepped backwards, chanting as she did so. Immediately, she felt her steps quicken, and this time, when the wolf charged at her, she sidestepped, swinging her fist into its head with precision.

The wolf fell to the floor, and in another instant, Phillar was standing, his eyes considering Jaheira carefully. Slowly, his arms moving towards the sky, he started to chant, his voice echoing throughout the glade. Jaheira began her own prayer, and her eyes were fixed on Phillar's. With a last shout to invoke the powers of nature, she called forward the power of the life-giving sun. From her hands, flared an impossibly bright line of sunlight, which bathed Phillar with a fierce, burning line of fire. Yet her prayer did not prevent his casting, for he finished it the moment before the sunbeam struck. Jaheira felt the wind around them stir, and instantly dropped to her feet, her hands digging into the ground, chanting as she did so.

From the ground, vines erupted, to grip hold of her, grasping at her, preventing her from moving. The wind continued to pick of pace, growing stronger and stronger. What began as a soft moan soon progressed to a shrieking set of howls. The treeline quivered and shook, as a vast whirlwind surrounded Jaheira. Instinctively, Jaheira summoned the power of her prayer, to send five more flashes, sunbeams, against the vaguely visibile shape of Phillar, whose grunts and startled winces of pain told her they were having _some_ effect.

Several small rocks and stones, whipped up into a frenzy by the icy whirlwind which was biting cruelly at her naked skin, struck her viciously. Her stomach was sliced with fiery pain, and one hard strike at her head made her fall deeper into the clutch of the entangling vines she herself had summoned. As the whirlwind grabbed at her with incredible force, she was glad for her unorthodox tactics. A whirlwind was a potent spell indeed, and had she been standing without protection, she would be helpless within the cyclone. As it was, she had used a spell most druids used _against_ their opponents to root herself within the strong vines.

The whirlwind died down, as the minutes passed, and Jaheira mentally commanded the vines to release her. As visibility was restored, she saw Phillar with smouldering burn-marks all over his skin. His eyes widened as he saw her standing there, but she knew he had done enough damage with the whirlwind. She was bleeding from one nasty cut on her forehead, and the back of one knee was in pain. Elsewhere, her skin was scarred with lines of crimson blood.

Breathing heavily, she, started to chant loudly, gesturing once. From the ground, erupted several ants. Fixing her gaze on them, she began another prayer, and watched as they enlarged rapidly in size. At her mental command, the ants rushed towards Phillar, who shrugged, as if entirely unconcerned. He rushed towards them, and Jaheira blinked, only once, as she saw him assume the form of a wolfwere. A sleek, grey-haired, almost beautiful creature, he easily knocked aside the six giant ants. The ants twitched once, and then the magic that sustained their giant forms faded, leaving six bewildered ants crawling through the grass.

The calm gaze of the wolfwere gaze quietly at Jaheira, for ten seconds or so, and then with quicksilver speed, he was rushing at her.

Jaheira formed an image in her mind of the constancy of the solid earth, of the armoured elemental, of the rumbling earth powers. Focusing her mind, she allowed her self to _flow_ into that form, and there were several gasps as she assumed the shape of a massive earth elemental. The wolfwere did not, however, slow, or withdraw.

The earth elemental raised its head to the night, and bellowed, the sound forcing many of the druids that were present, to clap their hands over their ears. The wolfwere howled, a shrill, ululating cry that sounded like bewitched music floating in the air. Then, the two slammed into each other. Although the strikes of the earth elemental were hard and powerful, the scratches of the wolfwere were swift and precise. Grey and earthy brown writhed against each other, their forms locked into combat, eyes hard and fierce.

For an hour, they thought, the wolfwere bleeding heavily, the earth elemental having lost many chunks of its form. After another five minutes, both forms flickered, and Jaheira and Phillar were now fighting, their pale, blue-painted skin thrashing on the ground, prayers and shapeshifting forgotten as the two druids locked themself in primal fighting. Jaheira's hands found their way to Phillar's throat, but he snapped her wrists back and kicked at her midriff. Although she punched his stomach and left him gasping, his kick at her head left her reeling.

Panting heavily now, her sweat obscuring the symbols painted upon her, Jaheira struck again towards Phillar, though she did so weakly. With a pained grunt, as if exhausted, Phillar blocked the blow. Just as he was about to attack again, a solemn, incredibly loud voice shrugged through the air. It spoke with an astounding vibrancy, that rattled Jaheira's teeth and seemed to set the earth to shivering: _Enough. You are both strong children, and your fighting could go on for days, had you bodies that could match the strength of your souls._

Jaheira gasped, as she felt the power of a god, _her_ god, wash over her. She fell to her knees, as did Phillar. Tears streamed down her face, and she saw the druids of the forest kneel down as well, even those who served Chauntea and the other gods. For a long moment, there was a stark, utter silence, then: _I will tell you of my decision, and all druids in the Sword Coast will abide by it. My brothers and sisters in the heavens have empowered me to speak for them. There will be a Grand Druid, ruler over all the druids of this region. Elsewhere, there will be other Grand Druids. Each Grand Druid will oversee a large area, and will give guidance to each enclave or individual. That guidance can be ignored, but only with good reason. A Grand Druid must be flexible, and at every druidmoot the Grand Druid will duel to prove their worth. A symmetry of order and chaos will be reached. Is this understood, my brethren?_

Around the glade, a resounding "Aye" rose from the lips of every druid.

_Furthermore, let it be known, that my servant Jaheira will not be the one to lead you as Grand Druid any longer_.

Jaheira bowed her head, though his words, pronouncing that he judged her inadequate, rocked her to the core. She felt shamed, sickened by her own failure. She heard the murmurs of the druids, who were astounded to here him pronounce his displeasure.

_I give you your new Grand Druid, Phillar the Peregrin._

The old man, his eyes looking sympathetically towards the silent, but tearful-eyed Jaheira, bowed to the air. Jaheira found it difficult to see through her swimming vision, but she did not let herself cry. She fixed her gaze upon the distant orb of Selune, and watched as a crown of leaves was placed upon Phillar's head. Even though her dreams of a united order were fulfilled, she felt like all her victory had been transformed into bitter dust.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Thank you for your reviews. Any corrections you have pointed out have been made. I am glad you like the story so far. For anyone who might be reading this, remember to read Destiny and Duty, because that will help much of this story make sense. Occasionally, as must happen with my disorganised brain, there are some discrepancies between the two, for example, I made Elizabeth Delryn Anomen's cousin in the first story, and his aunt in the next. In this story, I retain the right to change things to make the story's value greater. Once again, thank you for your reviews.**_

**Chapter Five**

The elves danced beautifully, their pale-white skins seeming almost translucent in the blue moonlight. Delicate traceries of vines and leaves decorated their hair. Autumn gold and auburn were the prevalent colours, providing a sharp contrast to their silver-white hair. Panpipes and flutes tinkled with their wondering, high-pitched tones through the glade, the unmatched skill of elven music providing a fine blend with the perfection of Tethir Forest. The druids too, danced, some of them in animal form, weaving a sinuous dance of a feral nature. She saw druids mating together as wolves, as bears, celebrating with abandon the fruitfulness of nature in autumn. More than one druidess would bear a child within nine months, and the offspring would be honoured greatly, as were all children of the druidsmoot.

Joy seemed to hover on the air as the druids and elves shifted and swirled, yet of that joy, nothing touched Jaheira.

She felt empty, lost, waiting in a world that had lost all meaning for her. Once, she had been the Grand Druid of the southern enclaves, beloved of Silvanus, respected by all. Now, she was nothing. A druid tossed aside by a god she had displeased, ignored by the merry-making druids, disdained by the few elves that even bothered to meet her gaze. Yet even in the midst of her bitterness, Jaheira could not bring herself to leave, for this was still a holy occasion, and she was still a druid, committed fully to the Balance. _Whatever happens, happens for a reason_, she told herself, and as she whispered it in her mind, she wished she could make herself believe it.

A quiet hush fell across the gathering. Jaheira turned her head, to see a brilliant pearly light moving towards the glade, from the east. The panpipes and flutes were joined now, by grander sounds. Harpsong, drifting with sublime resonance melded with a hundred other instruments that Jaheira had never heard before. A gentle breeze stirred the grass of the glade, and then, a figure of painful perfection slipped into the clearing.

Ellesime, Queen of Suldanessllar, Chosen of the Seldarine... the elves who were dancing, stopped, and in one unbroken movement, bowed to her. Jaheira was only dimly aware of them bowing, however. She was too transfixed by the beauty of the queen. Ellesime and Jaheira had spoken with each other before, but each time the druid saw her, she was made freshly aware of her own imperfections and clumsy gait. For hair of gold, tumbling like a heavenly waterfall down her back, accentuated blue eyes that blazed with passion and wisdom. A smooth face, alabaster-toned, with angular cheekbones and sharp-pointed ears, looked more like the image of a goddess, than an elf. And her movements! It was as if she was part of the breeze that stirred through the clearing, for she moved with dignity and poise to humble the greatest of emperors. Smiling, in a motion that stung mirth into even Jaheira's heart, Ellesime spoke, her voice like the pattering of spring rainfall, "I bid the druids of the Sword Coast greetings, and offer the time-honoured alliance that has existed between druids and elves, to Phillar the Peregrin, elf-friend and guardian of the Cloakwood, which once was our domain."

Phillar strode forward, and even the old druid, wizened and gnarled, was visibly shaken by the presence of the elf-queen. His hands shook on his staff, and he brushed his robes, as if suddenly self-concious. "Welcome, your majesty, welcome. You do us great honour, to arrive for the moonlit dance. Though I wonder how you know so swiftly of the changes that have been enacted this night...?"

A radiant laugh echoed, before she spoke once again, "The Seldarine are the lords of the greatest forest in all the worlds, the divine Arvandor. As their chosen, I am honoured with their love. They have whispered to me through the leaves this night, through the chuckling of streams and the braying of deer. A new Grand Druid has been named." At this, Ellesime turned her head to gaze upon Jaheira. Pity was there in her eyes, as well as sorrow. "My condolences, Jaheira. It is clear that the forest has other plans for your destiny." Her smile seemed to lift Jaheira's spirits. "Once the dance is completed, I wish to speak with you. There is much I can help you with, I think."

Jaheira simply nodded, too wearied from the fight and the announcement of Silvanus' dissapproval, to speak.

Ellesime clapped her hands, and instantly the night erupted into joyous bursts of music. Faster, whirling faster than any hurricane, the elves, girt with bells, started to dance. The druids soon joined, and the rustic humans moved alongside the regal elves, the two races for this night at least, united in their love for the forest of Tethir, or the Wealdath. Jaheira closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply.

Everything in her life turned to ashes in the end. Her love for Khalid had been meaningless in the end, but her loyalty to the Harpers had carried her through her loss, with a new purpose, to bring Balance alongside those who harp. Yet her part in that order had expired, and she had been cast adrift. Then, she had turned to become fully a druid, overseeing the restoration of Trademeet alongside her second love, Cernd... but there, orcs had trashed her dream. Her lover had fallen beneath iron blades, and nothing would grow in the old grove for several decades. Everything good had been burned. Blood had defiled the sacred places, and salt had been sown to expunge all life. She had failed the grove of Trademeet.

And now, her work for two years in Tethir had been judged worthless by her god. _Am I doomed to have my works ruined, Silvanus?_ She wanted to stand up, in the middle of the dance, and shriek, louder than the loudest wolf howl. Her frustration and fury at her rejection whipped through her mind like a scourge of Loviatar. Even though her eyes were closed, tears managed to seep down her cheeks.

A quiet voice spoke amidst her inner strife, "It is not a night to be sorrowful, druidess." Soft fingers brushed the tears from her cheek, and Jaheira opened her eyes, intent on unleashing the full scorn of her acid tongue upon the presumptuous male. Yet the words stopped themselves before they left, and instead, she breathed out, trying to calm herself. Eldeth knelt before her, his appealingly beautiful face and mysterious eyes pulling at her very soul. There was a deep gravity to him, beyond even the self-assurance that most elves possessed.

She shuddered once, and whispered, "It is not? When everything I have worked for is broken?"

His eyebrow quirked, and his lips moved into a quiet smile. A low, deeply musical chuckle lifted from his throat, and he touched his index finger upon her lips. The pad of his finger was silken, and Jaheira found her pulse quickening despite herself. Part of her suddenly wanted to join in the wild dancing, with this elf, feeling his fingers touch her and feeling his lips upon hers. "I would not say that everything you have worked for is broken, druidess. You have your united order. The druids are united, and happy. The elves are dancing alongside the druids, and even my Queen has, against the advice of certain counsellors, come to greet the new Grand Druid, signifying a true, binding alliance. What is broken, might I ask?"

Jaheira opened her mouth, trying to express what she felt in words, but she found she could not.

His fingers stroked her hair. "I do understand, druidess. The bards of the People sing of your deeds. I know of your husband, of your order, of the way destruction has constantly followed you like a shadow. Yet in this, you have won. What you have wrought here today, will last for centuries... what matter if you are not Grand Druid? Leave pride and longing for position to human kings and elves. Druids are too committed to nature for self-pity upon losing a position." As he said that, his eyes twinkled.

With a snapping voice, Jaheira said vehemently, "It is not pride!"

"No?" Again, the elf chuckled, and at once Jaheira felt her attraction for him fade like morning dew. He was insufferable!

"No!"

A look of puzzlement crossed his features, "Then why weep?"

Jaheira growled, but resisted the urge to grab him by the throat. "Because my god has judged me worthless!"

This time, the chuckle rose to an open expression of laughter. "Hardly. Your prayers were answered with equal power as those of the Peregrin. I was watching the fight. To say your god judges you worthless is to doubt the power he has so blatantly given you. Has it crossed your mind, that perhaps your Silvanus has another task for you? Another great victory for Jaheira once-of-Tethyr to accomplish in the cause of the Balance?"

His fingers touched her cheek again, his brow quirked in silent question, waiting for Jaheira to answer. She could not. Instead, she merely gaped. Finally, she whispered, "I have... I have been a fool. What has happened tonight is just a matter of the Balance shifting. Silvanus needs me elsewhere." She glanced up at his eyes, and this time her stomach seemed to tilt. _Stop acting like a lovesick girl, Jaheira!_ "Thank you, Eldeth. You have helped me greatly. If there is anything I can do in return, I shall be most happy to do so."

Something quite like triumph flickered in his gentle brown eyes, and he stood, standing straight. "As a matter of fact, there is. You see, my People are dancing, and if I do not find someone to dance with, I will be the subject of many songs that are mostly reserved for dwarven mockery. So... would you, to save my honour in front of my kinsmen, give me your hand in the dancing this evening?"

Jaheira this time laughed, the sound breaking through the last of her unhappiness. "Of course..."

And she took his hand, and became part of the whirling swirl of nature's dance.

* * *

Flushed, giggling like she was fifteen again, Jaheira held close to Eldeth. Somehow, their clothes were gone, and their eyes gazed deep into each other's eyes. Eldeth's lips found hers, gentle but insistent, and Jaheira returned the kiss, slowly, ever-so slowly. It had been two years... no, more than two years, since she had been held like this. Eldeth broke from the kiss, and as he caressed her cheek, sang an elven lullaby to her. Around them, the druids and elves continued to dance. Above them the orb of Selune started to fade away at the onset of morning. The leaves of Tethir Forest rustled, and then Jaheira stopped thinking, and gave herself up to the moment.

* * *

The midday sun blazed above them, and, sensing the warmth upon her face, Jaheira stirred. Her eyes flickered open, and she saw Eldeth, sleeping in her arms, a contented, distinctly _un_elven smile upon his face. His brown hair was mussed. With amusement, Jaheira let her gaze rove across the elf's form, before she stood to her feet gently, kissing him on his cheek. She looked about the glade. Many druids still slumbered, some alone, some with other druids, some even with elves, though those were fewer in number. Reaching for her light robe of deerskin, Jaheira clothed herself, and held close to her staff, feeling its pulsing call to her inner strength.

Last night, she had nearly committed a great blasphemy agaist Silvanus, but the young elf had brought her away from it, and to a lovemaking she had not known she craved. Glancing one last time at his charming, flushed, satisfied face, she smiled. She did not think it was love, but nor was it as simple as lust. He was a druid and a mage, he had told her those years ago, and with his remarkable insight, was probably one of the more respected ones in the elven city.

_Come into the forest, Jaheira..._

The voice of the elven queen trickled into her head, and Jaheira frowned. Quickly, but with all the quietude only druids or rangers can truly achieve in a forest, she slipped out of the glade, into the shadows of the forest. She walked for five minutes, aimlessly, until finally, in the distance, she saw the beautiful form of Ellesime. She was in a state of partial undress, and beside her, slumbered..._ Phillar?_ Somehow, the elven queen's vision must have picked up on Jaheira's incredulous expression, for her voice whispered in Jaheira's mind...

_He is a remarkable man._

Jaheira nodded, and followed Ellesime as she walked away from Phillar, until they were a decent length away from him. Then, Ellesime turned back to face Jaheira, and asked, with an impish smile on her face, "You had fun with Eldeth?"

Blinking once, Jaheira could only stammer an unprepared, "Y-yes." Whatever she had expected Ellesime to say, it had not been _that_, talking to her as if she were a childhood friend, to discuss bedfellows with.

Ellesime laughed gently, "You are surprised at my question? Perhaps you think I am still offended at the way you shouted at me concerning the Balance within the forest? Believe me, I harbour no ill will, even if you did say... what were your words? _"If you think I'm going to sacrifice the Balance to satisfy the megliomanical ego of a decrepid, idiotic, xenophobic queen, you can go stuff yourself with a boiled orc liver." _Did I get that right?" Her eyes twinkled, and Jaheira blushed. "I am glad you found enjoyment last night. I could sense your troubled mind. I had intended to speak with you during the festivities... but that rogue Eldeth found you first." Her voice warmed even further when she spoke of Eldeth.

Jaheira nodded, "Yes... he did. I am grateful to him."

The elf-queen fell silent, then, for a long time, before she said, "Jaheira. The Seldarine have told me of you... and you have a path filled with choices, and along many, your strand of life burns away to nothing... along a few, it burns brighter and brighter, growing in strength for year after year. I wish to ask you something, Jaheira... and perhaps it will help you in discovering what Silvanus would have you do next."

The druid frowned, "You may ask."

Ellesime sighed, and gazed into the distance. "Over the years, the elves have been dying, in these lands. Thousands fled, in the great Return. Some are coming back to us now, to revisit our old haunts, but there are too few of us. The Balance is shifting, for without elves, a great part of what brings magic and joy to Faerun will be lost forever." Her eyes became deeply sorrowful, in an expression Jaheira had only ever seen on an elven face. Humans, although they often gave in to grief, could never match that acute awareness of loss, for in the elven mind, the loss of an entire race and its history could be sensed each time they entered reverie. "Evermeet has been attacked, revealing our weakness for all the dark hearts of the world to read. My Queen, Amarluil, spoke with me yesterday. A new elven homeland is to be created, but I cannot tell you where."

Jaheira did not know what to say. There was nothing that could be said to help Ellesime cope with the possible death of her people. All she could say was, "What can I do to help, then?"

The elven queen turned to Jaheira, and the druid was startled to see tears sparkling in her eyes. "My seers have discovered a place, south of even the mysterious Zakhara. I want to you lead an expedition, unified between the humans of Amn and the elves of this forest. For the Seldarine have told me that there, we shall discover a way to survive the storms that will soon ravage Faerun."

Jaheira closed her eyes, contemplating the suggestion with trepidation. Would this guard the Balance, or destroy it? Her hands found the amulet of Silvanus, and through it, she sensed, very faintly, a faint pulse of warmth. It was only slight, but it was there. Opening her eyes, Jaheira spoke with icy determination, "So be it. I will help you, Ellesime."


End file.
